


Love unseen

by JanuaryBlue



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Convocation meetings, Elidibus expertly cleans up messes except for one, Elidibus likes it rough, Extremely inappropriate uses of aether doubles, F/M, Grinding, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23760001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: Just because you cannot see all the intimate, sordid details of a relationship, does not mean there is nothing there. In fact, sometimes it is the parts that we cannot see that are the most damning of all...Or, the day that the Convocation will never allow you and Elidibus to live down, ever.
Relationships: Elidibus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	Love unseen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kiku (kikuhiko)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikuhiko/gifts).



> An extremely belated birthday gift for the lovely Kiku! Consider it a congratulatory gift, as well? XD Great job on your clear! Artists and gamers alike very often talk down their own accomplishments, but honestly, you're fantastically skilled artistically and it was obvious even when I first met you that it's a skill born of passion and dedication, just like your skill in-game. 
> 
> It's always a pleasure to see your art and your taste in characters and dynamics is fantastic, hehe ;) You're a delight in DMs and a lovely friend, and even though I have been desperately late with this I hope you get your Elidibus loving on and can enjoy a very belated birthday gift and bask in the accomplishments you've gotten so far.

Elidibus is a gentle lover.

Of course he is – reserved, tender, seemingly utterly devoid of passion unless you willfully drew it out, giving him pleading, needy looks and whining as though you felt unwanted. He is a sensitive individual; it is in his nature to be closely attuned to his partner’s emotions, detecting the slightest shifts and compensating quickly.

A diplomat to the core, constantly seeking to satisfy you, attentive to your every expression. Not prone to speaking his own mind or feelings, focused solely on how he might serve another’s purposes, entirely neglecting his own.

When you sigh, he shifts. When you whine, he presses harder. When you reach out, he threads his fingers with yours, and when you at last meet his eyes with open distress he squeezes and leans in to cover your mouth with his, whispering praise into your lips.

Yes, the emissary is most gentle when it comes to intimate relations.

You are most decidedly _not_.

Sometimes you worry Elidibus truly has spoiled you – indulged you too deeply, allowed you to feel too comfortable in his affections. You’re a jealous creature and a visceral one; sucking mark after mark over his neck as you line it with kisses, pressing your tongue into the pulse of his throat to feel the undeniable tremor that races through him for it.

Bruises on his hips from your riding him, on his shoulders from holding him in place, on his thighs that you _love_ to squeeze, digging fingers into firm, toned muscles, on his own waist, irresistibly supple flesh, pale and bared for your pleasure.

Bolder and bolder you grow. Up his shoulders, plain on his throat, little nips on his arms that make him twitch and gasp and clutch at you further. Dragging your teeth along his skin and leaving red lines, scrapes of relief that he stills his arms to receive.

On one or two instances you let your insistence get the better of you. Shove him into a wall, into a table, bend him over a chair – _oh,_ the things you did with him. To him.

Elidibus is a gentle lover – you are quite a rough one. And Elidibus, you’ve discovered, slowly, intimately, with a restrained but burning glee –

Elidibus _likes_ it rough.

Once, you’d gotten as far as his wrists, angry looking red marks from the silk you’d twined around them. So risky, so visible, such a thrilling claim for you to add to your collection.

He is not one to _struggle,_ per se, but he is a worrier by nature, unused to relinquishing control. Even under assertions that he is fine, all is well, his hands instinctively sought to move while you touched him, tugging against restraints so well in place.

You’d worried that you are overbearing, that this is too much for him – but he hadn’t stopped tugging as you’d went on.

As soon as he’d hit the wall his arms whipped out to pull you hard against him. He’d leaned into the table while you closed in on him, giving you no choice but to pin him. When you’d pressed him over the arm of the chair he’d spread his legs wide in clear invitation, grasped at your hands and pulled you flush to his back to embrace him.

He could, of course, remove the evidence of your heated lovemaking afterwards… but he knows quite well how you like to see them on him. After you’d put them there, and days after – seeing your claim still on him. The only stain permitted to linger on otherwise flawless skin.

The emissary clad in purest white, speaking in smooth dulcet tones, even-tempered as any could ask. And underneath it the purples and reds you’d so lovingly painted him in, a work of art unmatched; truly, your devotion knew no bounds.

However much it pleased you to _see_ your work, though – it paled in comparison to seeing how he himself indulged in it.

It’s after a particularly passionate night of lovemaking that you wake to him getting dressed, watching lazily from the bed as he drew pale robes over flesh marked in the unmistakable bruises and bites of intimate origin.

There’s no doubt that he can feel your eyes on him, feel your gaze heavy and close and cloying over every ilm of his skin as he covers it. Elidibus doesn’t make a _production_ of it, of course, but you can see – the slight ways he tugs his robes over particularly sore places, how his aether shivers in the delightful pain of it. How he draws the fabric over his head to drape over just the right places, baring the lines you’d laid on his back as it slowly slides down.

Bending over to acquaint you once more with that pleasant derriere, an outline of those hips that had molded so tightly to yours –

“Do you require assistance getting up and dressing yourself?”

You smirk even though he’s turned away, pulling on socks and boots as his aether pulls his mask through the air towards him. “Why ask a question when you already know how I’d answer?”

“I did not ask what you _wanted._ ”

Falling back on the bed loudly, spreading your eyes wide in dramatism that you know will go unappreciated. “So you mean to leave me here? Naked and ravished after you’ve had your carnal way with me?”

“Indeed.” You can _hear_ the smile in his voice, the same smile just gentle enough to not look smug. “My voracious appetite has been sated; if you must remain here for it, I shall arrange for your late arrival at the meeting this morning.”

Mock exasperation fills your voice as you huff loudly, and he gives off a gentle chuckle. He makes it so difficult for you to be angry at him when he’s like this. He’s always like this.

Considerate. Caring. All too ready to adjust for others, perpetually seeking to satisfy and thinking naught of any cost to himself. Your Elidibus. _Your_ emissary.

Unprompted, you rise, throwing yourself from the sheets and to stumble off the bed. “I’m getting up,” You whine as you magick on your robes, a wasteful habit he clicks his tongue at, turning his bare face to you. “Don’t leave without me.”

The most pleasant of sights; Elidibus’s face, smooth and fine-featured, silvery hair pooling around it as he lifts his mask up. Only you’ve the privilege of catching that special warmth in his eyes, the full cadence of his expression. Everyone else gets the mask.

And the mask falls in place, too, as you hastily pull on your remaining raiments.

“I would not dream of it.” Patiently he waits for you to finish, grasping your hand gently in his own before you depart together.

He only lets go when you get to the Capitol building.

When he sits you can see him near wince as he settles in. You remember how his backside had looked when he’d risen from the bed, hips marked in the shape of your fingers, thighs bruised at the force of your lovemaking. He must be _quite_ sore –

And by the way his lips part, just barely, faintly, as he shifts just a bit more than necessary in his seat – Elidibus likes it.

He likes it quite a bit, with how he lays his forearms easily on the table. It’s clear from the angle that his wrist is pressing into the table, wrists that had been reddened and wrought by your will, bound and pinned and any number of things – the nights did tend to blur together, sometimes.

You’re not a savage, of course; you’d offered to heal him, yourself. Just because he liked it rough, didn’t mean he should have to deal with the aftermath.

At first you thought he refused out of pride – and most likely, he did. But then…

Yes, in the way he puts more pressure on just the right spots, shifts himself constantly to knead and poke at sore places – it seems there’s some pleasure to be had for him, even in the aftermath.

Sweet little pains, on demand, gentle in insistence and wholly in his power to cause and relieve. Bruises there for him to press just as much as he likes, how he likes. Welts for him to prod at as he pleases. Your canvas of sensations free for his perusal.

It’s most unfortunate that you and he sit at opposite ends of the table, facing one another. It does, however, grant you an excellent view of your lover, as much as the traditional robes and mask would grant you. Lips a touch swollen from bites and kisses. That lovely chin and smooth jaw, leading up to cheekbones, eyes, a face you knew so well you could picture every bit of it underneath. 

His body language, too, is clear. The little twitches, how he holds himself to angle _just_ against one spot or another. How his breaths – measured by the rise and fall of a chest you know all too well – go uneven, and he inhales in that subtle technique he’d shown you, parting his lips almost invisible to allow a deep breath without notice.

When Lahabrea begins the meeting, Elidibus slowly breathes out, cheeks just barely not flushed, arms settling loosely against the table. He watches with the direct intent of a man in need of a distraction.

You haven’t the faintest of intentions of showing him mercy.

There’s a trick you learned in the Akaedemia, one even Lahabrea wouldn’t know. The tiniest of exploits available in one particular minutiae of phantomology you were _quite certain_ the speaker had never investigated, not even in all his knowledge of the various forms of Creation.

Leaning back in your chair in a movement completely innocuous, you focus your aether throughout every part of yourself. Feeling how it permeated your being, the shape of it, the shape of yourself as your back pressed into the chair.

Feeling a slice of it slough out as though shedding, behind you. A faint copy, almost a silhouette, but having exactly your dimensions, your shape and form. It fell back through the chair, unseen, and stood behind you at attention.

The double was, of course, quite useless. Invisible to even the most discerning eye, intangible and only able to exert the slightest of influences on the material plane, and not for very long at a time, either. Connected to you as it was, you felt what it felt, albeit muted.

Your phantom form drifts directly towards Elidibus, through the table, to stand just at the side of his chair. Waiting.

“The nature of these reforms – never mind the vague terms in which they are laid out, _‘beneficial’, ‘efficient’_ – sets a dangerous precedent for the regulation of the act of Creation itself. What next? Shall we forbid children to engage in fits of whimsy? Refrain from the small conveniences of Creating a pen or spare umbrella as life requires? Restrict this magick to use only under planned and approved of circumstances?”

You watch Lahabrea speak with naught less than rapt attention. It wouldn’t do to draw any eyes to the emissary and his current state, after all. Not that anyone would; Pashtarot immediately interjects to accuse Lahabrea of wild speculation, assuming far more than what the original proposal entailed.

From that a lively debate ensues, in which Lahabrea is right and everyone else is wrong. Perhaps they’d learn, one day, not to engage him in rhetoric; today is not that day.

Concentrating, feeling the position of your invisible shade, feeling its form as you would your own, you reach into Elidibus’s hood and stroke down the side of his mask, brushing his cheek. There is no visible effect on his clothing or his effects, but he _does_ feel it all the same.

His lips twitch ever so slightly. Pose shifting, nudging into the empty air as if to test it – but for all the world, there is nothing there. Voices, closer to angry than to reasonable, fill the room as the Speaker works his particular brand of infuriating magic.

As he issues his scathing retort to Pashtarot’s rebuttal – a moment where normally a mediator would step in – you whip your phantom’s hand out to lay over his, giving the gentlest of impressions. Bumping against a sore wrist just enough to feel the jolt that springs his hand taut.

He knows now for certain – you can’t see his eyes darting to you behind his mask but his hand pulls back to his body defensively. If it hadn’t been for the expectant glances of your colleagues expecting him to stem the tide of the Speaker’s scorn, the gesture might have gone unnoticed.

“Lahabrea,” Elidibus says, keeping his hand on the table, “Far be it from me to dispute your expertise. However, unless you wish to argue that the Convocation is a public forum, and not a collection of renowned, talented scholars all in their own rights, you may wish to recall that we are here to _cooperate._ ”

Letting that go unchallenged is hard for him, but he does, crossing his arms and inclining his head only barely. “By all means. Tell us; how shall we cooperate on this thing which we disagree on, Elidibus?”

Bitter as ever. Normally the sort of attitude Elidibus navigated with ease. A light suggestion, a scolding and a subtle implication, one or another tactic to shape the flow of conversation. Dancing around rhetoric and aggression with his usual diplomacy.

You have your double reach in and grope at his chest, incorporeal fingers ghosting through fabric to bruises you knew in intimate detail, to brush against a well-toyed nipple already peaked in arousal.

It’s impossible to miss how quickly Elidibus folds his arms, too fast and stiff to be sternness. Eyes are on him at once, and they linger. He leans back in what would normally be a gesture of relaxation, but his tension is plain for any who know how to look for it. His robes are soft but even the touch of fabric against the red lines you’d drawn down his back must be agonizing.

A ghostly hand running down his body confirms – every bit of muscle you feel over is pulled tight in strained desire. It must be the one thing that keeps his voice even while he navigates Lahabrea’s dogmatism. Pashtarot interjects, Lahabrea snaps at him, and it’s Emet-Selch who tells the two to calm down – in decidedly less respectful terms.

Most fortunate he does; were a perceptive individual to so much as glance over the emissary they would surely notice how his hands curled just where they hid in his sleeves. His side leans into your phantom touch, to the shape of those hands that had held him so hard to leave those marks –

But the stimulation is gone, bare as it was to begin with. Lingering in aching flesh, teasing at the edge of his awareness, not unlike the phantom itself.

“Are you quite all right, honored Elidibus?” Emet-Selch asks in a strange tone – you can’t tell who he’s mocking, with how Lahabrea glares at him.

Elidibus, naturally, responds in the affirmative. Your phantom kneels beside him – though none but you would even know the gesture is made – and trails hand over him to the inside of his thigh. Like this, the sensation goes straight through his clothes, tickling over bare skin, feeling to him like the true touch of your skin against his.

A shame the phantom’s senses were so limited; you would be quite intrigued to know the state of his pants. He doesn’t look at you, of course, doesn’t loom, but you know he watches you raptly, waiting for some sign or signal, some way to tell what you were doing. If you were doing it.

Tracing fingers along his inner leg, circles and tight whorls with a barely-there fingertip, too gentle to scratch like he _craves,_ teasing, taunting – enticing.

His legs tuck tight together as though to trap you – but once again, there is nothing there.

“Elidibus?” This time, Lahabrea takes note. “Is something the matter?”

“Of course not,” He says, unfolding his arms to contribute to a relaxed, unaffected front.

Arms jump on the table as you move, leaning in to hook the phantom’s head over his leg, nuzzling to where his groin should be. Grasping over his thighs, digging fingertips into where you knew his bruises lay. You wanted to feel him _squirm._

“As your fellow in the Convocation I expect naught less than your full attention…” Lahabrea remains unconvinced, but even with the comparatively rampant display – there’s no reasonable conclusion for what is happening to the emissary in his mind and he’s too attached to his argument to pursue it.

Elidibus, as well, is what one might call ‘attached’ – far too fond of his image as emissary to abandon his post so quickly. He tenses against you once more, prepared to bear whatever may come, his gaze and attention directed solely towards the speaker.

And that’s fine. More than fine. The tightness of his lips, his tendency to silence and arms that he cannot stop crossing and uncrossing –

That’s fine. You can wait.

As soon as the others are gone, he’s got you on the table, back on your elbows, nearly lying back on it as he leans in, wedging your hips against the edge with his own. Surprisingly he doesn’t bother to nudge them apart with his leg; Elidibus grasps at your thighs and pulls at them right away, guiding them around his waist with minimal effort, shoving your robes up them as he closes in.

“Impatient, are we?” You tease, carelessly shaking off your hood, shedding decency as he does his reserve.

The silence he meets you with, how he merely leans and presses you with his body, uncharacteristically unresponsive, his lips unreadable – it makes your heart race. His hair falls from its place, normally bound and tucked safely within his hood. Silvery strands drifting forwards to hang in the air as he looms over you, closing in. That beaked red mask normally so cool and distant now pointed sharp like a predator as he angles inwards.

Elidibus dives in seeking no less than to _devour_ you. Hands dart straight for your breasts, palming them through the robes, rolling experimentally and then squeezing, just tight enough for a delicious rush of relief as he releases. He swallows your moans as if starved, allowing not a drop to escape, nor a breath to pass through the lips he claims.

There are no moans, no grunts or small noises of pleasure; instead the feel of his hands on you disappears and reappears as fingers riding up the base of your thighs, your hips, pads soft and clinging to your bare skin. Roaming over you freely, coaxing your flesh and working over it, kneading into muscles with a smooth familiarity that can only be _possession._

He’s hard against you, burning up, even, but you can only feel him under his robe. As you curl your legs around him to pull him close, it digs into you, hot and deliciously prominent against your crotch. You buck your hips to meet him, but he pulls back – hands curve, fitting easily over your hips to press you down by the bones, hard against the table, enough to send a jolt up your spine. Holding you down beneath him, back so close to the table.

To part your lips for words only has him tasting you further; his lips purse around your tongue where he sucks and twirls his own at the tip. One hand roams up to cup your breast, palming the flesh easily as he kneads, caresses. You bite his lip, hard. Chest fluttering at the little sigh he finds it in himself to make, how his mouth parts delicately open for you, stilled in its assault, giving you free reign to suck and prod at the wound.

There’s a brush against your crotch again as he brings his hips towards yours. His pawing has hiked your robes high and the soft fabric of his own dress brushes snug against your sex, catching on the wetness and making your all the more aware of your arousal and his. Leaning forward, his hips slide _deliciously_ over you and drag the length of him up your sex, grinding just where you want, friction lighting up your senses when he gets just to the crest –

And stops. Instinctively you whine, high-pitched and needy, and his hands grasp at you fiercely, burning into your skin with desire. When he parts from you, still masked, a trail of saliva threading between your lips for but a heartbeat before it breaks.

You pant lightly before him, watching his tongue glide between his lips in wetting. Features unreadable. “Are you mocking me?” The question needs no answer, and yet.

His lips only barely twitch as he ruts himself up against you again, igniting sharp fervor in your sex until he releases, winding back. “Were you?” He asks lowly, arms moving to cage you in beneath him, chest covering yours. 

Your hands dart to his shoulders – clutching to keep yourself from falling back against the table – and he laughs. The sound is hard against your neck, almost as much as his teeth as he sucks and nips with the buck of his hips into you.

Working your arms down his body to pull him forward proves futile; no sooner could you yank a breeze from the air than pull him any closer to you. Elidibus only pins you further back, hips maddeningly distant while his chest remains flush against yours.

The ornamental decorations of his robe press, cool and solid, into your flesh bared from his ravishing. Even your whine, he savors, licking a cool line up your neck, wetting hot, flushed skin.

You bend your legs around him, curling to pull him in, or at least draw yourself up into his still-covered erection. With his particular brand of silence you know as laughter, he shifts, still trapped in your legs but allowing your robe to fall just enough to cover your sex, dulling any contact.

His lips twist in a smile against your pulse at the noise of irritation you make. Smug, no doubt.

Phantom touches trace down his back, straight through robes; you’re blessed to feel the shiver from the front of his form pressed against you. Hands clench wordlessly against your sides, claws drawing against flesh just hard enough for the scratch to linger in your senses.

His lips part as if in a gasp, but all he does is press his thumbs into your skin, massaging in tight, deep circles. Allowing only the barest brush of his robe to openly catch over your dripping sex while his hands roam freely. He always had quite the sense for karmic retribution. Balancing the scales, and all that.

Normally, during a time like this, you would of course call him by his name – but like pleasure lancing through your core as his brushes come close, _so close,_ the white of his robes strikes you with a sudden inspiration.

“Elidibus,” You whine, just as needy and wanton as you would his own name.

The title, the reminder of his office – you were in your _own_ place of office, for the star’s sake – his lips curl and a hand parts from you, finally, * _finally*_ grasping at his own robes and yanking them up, baring his erection in a careless display that almost has you laughing.

Until he brings it straight to the slit between your legs, laying the length of it between your folds and bearing down, pressing just against your clit – direct contact, hot and throbbing as he _drags_ himself down, sliding it against you in a delectable slip of friction over your sex. The head reaches your clit and he stops himself, bearing down to trap his cock between your joined hips.

The moan that escapes you is downright embarrassing, or it would be, were you in any rational state of mind. But there way his cock runs up you, dragging forth the wave of pleasure as it crests, and pulling it back as he slides down, stopping near your entrance, clenching violently.

Then he throws his cock up again, the delicate, throbbing skin of his length once more rubbing up to meet your clit, grinding down in sensuous delight. You’re open wide for him, against him, and as he leans himself closer to grind against you, you’re forced wider still, legs still wrapped tight about him, embracing him fiercely.

Panting heavily, open mouthed, nearly wailing in your desire as he seizes your sides to hold you in place, clawtips just barely poking into bare, vulnerable flesh. Only when you squirm, pressing yourself into them, does Elidibus permit himself to clutch at you in earnest, sweet, cooling lines scraping against you and the heat builds from below.

The flush on his cheeks is undeniable, even from beneath the mask. His chest heaves, his cock throbs, his jaw clenched tight in concentration – fervor.

When you buck against him, he makes no attempt to stop you, rutting in time with the lift of your hips, thrusting sweet friction over your sex as you leak onto him. He grinds harder, closer, pleasure blooming as sweet climax rips form you.

With a sob, you tighten around nothing, your sex hot and glowing with rapture as you shudder in the aftershocks. Elidibus pulls away, leaning forward so his cock slides right up, sending a shudder rippling through you as he slips past your clit.

Hot flesh is pressed closer still as he positions himself higher, leaning forward at the top of his toes. His cock laid flat along your lower abdomen and you look down just in time to see it twitch and then spurt in release, a soft but unmistakable moan emitting from him. His hands clench against you, as if holding you in place while he paints you in his medium of choice.

You can feel it, hot and sticky, dribbling down your bare, heated skin as he backs off. Trickling to your sides, branching out as it flowed along. How _lewd._ Fair is fair, you suppose, but he can’t expect to ruin your robes, not while you still had to leave.

The look on his mouth is much too smug – too satisfied. You pull yourself forwards to sit at the edge of the table, whipping your hand to cup over his jaw, angle his face downward.

“Emissary,” You say, eyes gleaming as they meet his mask, “You’ve made a mess of me.”

Elidibus accepts your judgement silently, his gaze on your belly, coated in his release, almost as heavy. At his silence you cluck your tongue and drag him close, head cupped in your hands.

“Clean it up.” The demand flows from your lips as easily as the mess in question did from his cock.

There’s a pause where you think he might protest being commanded into such a position. Where he might cease this little game and remove the mess with a flick of his fingers, helping you dress and leaving with you to take this encounter to a more… intimate venue.

But the emissary only kneels between your thighs, opening his mouth against your lower half – just above your sex – to catch his own dripping release. Hot and wet and sliding over you, his lips purse over your skin and traverse you as his tongue laps up what drops he finds. Parting and diving back to suck at one place or another, gently, teeth just barely scratching.

Oh, he doesn’t leave a mark, but you can _feel_ him all the same. Gentle and delicate against your skin, carefully savoring and mapping out the curves and valleys of your lower half. Hands over your hips, tracing light circles over jutting bones, so tender and faint you get the urge to squirm. 

When he gets up to your navel, you grasp at the edges of your robe at your sides, silently clutching it as you look down on him, on the mask that by necessity has been replaced with an illusion, covering his face while allowing him to freely drag his mouth over you.

For certain, he’s able to see your smile before you drag your robe up and over his head, pulling it right down over his form and your own, trapping him against you as you laugh. There’s an expected huff against your torso – his hot breath cool against skin slick with his own saliva – but he darts down between your legs, tongue lapping at a sex just barely off the edge of overstimulation.

“Ah…” You probably should have expected this – your hands can only grasp futilely at his hair through the cloth. You’re just about to rip it in frustration when a coming noise disquiets you.

There’s the sound of footsteps near the door, a creak. Elidibus freezes between your legs like a frightened woodland animal caught in your net. His robes weren’t entirely hidden, _anyone_ would be able to tell –

“Honored Fourteenth seat – e- _emissary? Esteemed Elidibus?”_

Oh. Well, then.

**Author's Note:**

> ...And then, Nabriales never let Elidibus hear the end of it XD 
> 
> It was worth it though, right? For the fun quickie? Right? _Right?_ All it cost you and Elidibus was your dignity~


End file.
